Once love resurrected—my father
returning home after a long absence
to a foreign country, bearing gifts:
a plastic doctor's kit for me, a doll
with wooden shoes for my sister. I would
place the plat stethoscope to my heart
and listen. Sometimes I'd make notes,
ask other people to put in the ear tips,
to confirm my fear, to hear what I thought
might be abnormal. But my heart never
suffered. Only my mouth bloomed with sores,
making it difficult to speak without blood
darkening my lips to the color of a Valentine.